


a litany of you

by lemon_lullabies



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief suicidal ideation, Healing, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, but there is a happy ending, the fallout of the chimera ant arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29115969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_lullabies/pseuds/lemon_lullabies
Summary: A piece inspired heavily by poems fromcrushby Richard Siken, told in two parts.Part one is pretty heavy angst and contains internalized homophobia and sentiments of giving up.Part two is about healing and forgiveness. There's a happy ending, I promise!
Relationships: Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck
Comments: 17
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this is very different from the type of stuff i usually write, but i had this idea and had to write it out.
> 
> this first part is inspired by this excerpt from "a primer for the small weird loves" by richard siken:
> 
> "The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater  
> because he is trying to kill you,  
> and you deserve it, you do, and you know this,  
> and you are ready to die in this swimming pool  
> because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means  
> your life is over anyway.  
> You’re in the eighth grade. You know these things.  
> You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do  
> long division,  
> and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless  
> he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you  
> didn’t do,  
> because you are weak and hollow and it doesn’t matter anymore."

Gon is tired.

He’s so dreadfully, heartbreakingly, inexplicably _tired_.

He’s tired of fighting. He’s been fighting from the moment he was born, maybe even before then. He came out of the womb kicking and screaming, and as soon as his wobbly toddler legs could support his weight, he began running and climbing, too.

When he left Whale Island, the fighting only got worse. It got more dangerous every second he breathed, escalated each moment until he had killed himself, and really he should be dead. He’s not. Sometimes he wonders why.

Fighting the evils of the world is exhausting and nobody talks about it. 

All those fights left their marks. Scrapes, bruises, and scars serve as a personal scrapbook; the bones that healed wrong transcribe his life story, of the enemies he’s faced over and over. But Gon’s most adamant adversary has always been expectations.

When you’re the son of famous hunter Ging Freecss, it’s a little impossible to escape them. Gon is tired of trying.

He’s 18 and he’s tired.

Someone - some nameless, faceless stranger - is holding Gon’s head underwater.

He could easily fight back. Push back against the restraint. Break the arm holding him down. Kill his attacker if he must. End it all in one fluid movement.

He doesn’t.

Because Gon has been strong for so long and in some masochistic way – or maybe it’s just sadistic – it’s awfully nice to just _give up_. To relax, let his muscles go slack, let the stale air he didn’t realize he was holding flare out of his lungs in a desperate escape. It’s nice to let go and not care and just accept whatever the hell was happening.

Gon had never really understood what was happening at any given time. It didn’t matter, the details never mattered; he just pushed forward and fought for what he thought was right. But now there’s no difference between right and wrong and even if there was, it wouldn’t matter. He doesn’t _need_ to understand. He just lets it flow over him and around him like some sickening caress.

But that doesn’t mean Gon is stupid. He knows things.

He knows how to catch and gut fish and how to sell those fish in the sweltering summer heat to customers who can barely make ends meet but need the sustenance. He knows how to end a life with no screams and no remorse. He knows how to carefully roll out the dough for Aunt Mito when she’s baking so that there’s no inconsistencies. He knows how to do long division (finally, after hours of frustration and more than one call to Knuckle for math help). He knows how to charm people and how to put up with older ladies who want to touch him in ways that make him feel sick and how to make people smile even when he cannot.

And he knows that here, boys who like boys are dead boys if they can’t keep their mouths shut.

Gon was never one to keep his mouth shut. How could he, really, when Killua is so perfect, so talented, so ethereal and mystical and kind underneath his skin – his armor so tainted with the crimes of his past? So Gon talked and talked and talked about his best friend, about the beautifully dangerous tempest that was Killua Zoldyck.

It was only a matter of time before someone put two and two together and realized Gon wasn’t normal. That, no, it wasn’t that he “hadn’t found the right girl yet” or was “too young to understand” but rather that he already understood, already had found the right person. A person who wasn’t a girl.

But Gon thinks: how can they blame him? How could anyone be Killua’s best friend and not fall madly, desperately, frantically in love with him? It wasn’t fair.

_It wasn’t fair._

It doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters. Gon is tired of letting people down. Of failing. He had failed at saving Kite, and he had failed at being enough for his father, and he had failed at being Killua’s friend. Most of all, he had failed himself.

He had a dream, once, that was oddly similar to his current situation except it was Killua who was holding Gon’s head under the water, Killua who split him open with a dull knife because Gon had dared to tell him. Gon had told him and begged and begged _please Killua just for one night, will you lay down next to me? I want you, but we can leave our clothes on, just please hold me_ and Killua had killed him. He deserved it.

He had woken up in a cold sweat. Gon knows Killua would never do something like that, but the sentiment remained. He failed at being what Killua needed. It seemed he was doomed to always fail.

So no, Gon didn’t fight back. He laid there: half floating, half sinking in the murky water of the river for loving someone he shouldn’t. And when someone pulled his attacker away, screaming _you’re going to kill him_ and _stop it_ and then, more quietly, _hey are you alright_ , Gon wished he could sink.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this second part draws upon excerpts from “litany in which certain things are crossed out,” “i had a dream about you,” “you are jeff,” “little beasts,” and “snow and dirty rain.”
> 
> there are a few times where i directly quoted from some of those poems. quotes from "litany in which certain things are crossed out" are denoted by * on either end of the quote, and one quote from "snow and dirty rain" is marked with two (**)
> 
> healing takes time, my friends, but it does come. don't give up just yet.

It’s months later, who knows how many, and Gon is alive. He breathes in and it’s not water. He breathes out and starts to forgive himself.

He writes a letter. Then he writes another. He sends neither.

_Dear Killua,_

_I had a dream about you. I have a lot of dreams about you, actually. Some are good, and some are bad, and some would make you blush so hard I think you might explode. I won’t tell you about those ones, though. And I don’t want to relive the bad ones, so I’ll just tell you about the good ones._

_My dreams are a little weird. I think all dreams are. It makes them interesting. Things are much more fun to hear about when they’re out of the ordinary. Nobody likes to hear stories about the ordinary._

_I think I’ve become ordinary. In the time I’ve been here on Whale Island, I mean. I don’t travel around to cool places anymore. I don’t see new things. I don’t have my nen, and I don’t have you. I’ve become boring, and I wonder if you would still want to be my friend if you saw me now._

_But about my dreams._

_There was one night where it was raining, and the air was cold – cold enough that I could feel it even through my bedroom walls – and it took me hours and hours to fall asleep because the rain was so loud on the roof (and because I missed you). It was a fitful sleep, and I think that’s maybe why my dream was so weird. There were cows falling from the sky and landing in the mud and we stared at them. What do you think that means, Killua? Maybe it sounds dumb, but I think it was my brain telling me to clean myself up. In the figurative way, I mean. My life was muddy. Everything felt sticky. Life clung to my body like a second skin. I think I was suffocating. I don’t know what the cows mean, though. I think I’ll look it up._

_Okay I looked it up. It says that cows in dreams are a good sign. They’re a symbol of important issues, or sometimes they represent passive behavior. Maybe I’ve been too passive. I don’t know. Maybe the cows don’t represent anything at all._

_But back to the dream. We’re sitting there, watching the cows, and you’re drinking a smoothie and I’m eating an orange. I keep throwing some of the orange segments at you, and we laugh. I miss your laugh. We were laughing, and I asked you to kiss me, and you did. I said “kiss me here and here and here” and you did, and we were happy._

_Then you said you were hungry and wanted pasta, so we went into the garden – you remember, right, the one at the top of the hill – and jumped on the tomatoes and rolled around in the mess to make the sauce. Even covered in bits of tomato, you were beautiful. You’re always beautiful._

_There was another dream. This one is a little bit sad._

_In this dream, you were sick. I found you laying in the road and staring at the stars and I knew something was wrong so I picked you up and carried you in my arms. I carried you all the way home._

_I put you on the bed and took a shower. The water was cold. I think that’s because life seems a little cold without you. Maybe that’s dumb. It probably is. You used to say I’m dumb. Is it weird that I miss that? Is it weird that I miss you so much? Do you miss me?_

_I got out of the shower and I went to check on you. You were laying there on the bed, on top of the covers in only your boxers, and you were watching some cartoon on the television. I don’t remember what the cartoon was. I don’t think it really matters. But the light from the TV was blue and it made your skin blue, too._

_I was still dripping wet from the shower, but I laid down next to you anyway. Our arms were touching and our legs were touching and I watched you watch the TV. You were so thin I could see your ribs pushing against your skin like tiny daggers._

_I was scared. I thought about taking you to the hospital. I didn’t, though. I’ve never liked hospitals. And I’m sure you never want to see me in one again, even if I’m not the one who’s hurt._

_Let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about another dream._

_I have dreams about dancing. You and me, dancing. We’re chest to chest and we’re cheek to cheek and your hand is in mine. Sometimes we’re outside under the stars, and sometimes we’re inside under the flickering artificial lights. Sometimes we’re listening to some old song croon from a half-broken radio, and sometimes we’re listening to some faceless figure run their fingers along an out-of-tune piano, and once we were listening to nothing at all. I think I liked that dream best because I could hear your heartbeat and your breathing and I knew you were alive. I like when you’re alive._

_There’s this one dream I don’t really remember. I liked it, though. Here’s the one scene I do remember: I’m in a hallway and someone left the light on. I’m looking for the light switch, and there’s this radio in the background. It’s playing my favorite song. And then I hear your voice. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but I try anyway, wandering down the hallway that never ends. I say “keep talking” but I don’t know if you hear me. You do keep talking though – I can’t tell what you’re saying but that doesn’t matter – and I walk and walk and walk towards your voice. I’ll always walk towards your voice. Even if I’m dead I’ll walk towards your voice._

_I don’t know where you are right now. You’re still running from Illumi, as far as I know, and you don’t have an address. Maybe someday this letter will find its way into your hands. Until then, I guess I’ll just keep seeing you in my dreams._

_Love,  
Gon_

The second letter is much shorter.

_*Dear Forgiveness,_

_You know that recently we have had our difficulties and there are many things I want to ask you*. Things like “how do I know if I deserve you” and “do things really get better,” questions you can’t answer. I tried to ask you that one time in the river with the hand holding my head under the current. Maybe you didn’t hear me._

_I’m going to try to trust you. I’m going to try to forgive myself._

_Aunt Mito just finished making some apple pie. *I saved a plate for you. Quit milling around the yard and come inside*._

_-Gon_

What Gon doesn’t know is that he _is_ forgiven. What he also doesn’t know is that good things are to come.

What Gon doesn’t know is that the wounds heal – not just the ones along his arms and legs and chest but the ones in his mind, too. They heal, and his skin is a little different in places, pale and thick like rope, like train tracks across his body. They heal, and he pulls his boots onto his feet with both hands, and for once he can look at those hands and see them clean of viscous blue blood.

What Gon doesn’t know is that Killua reads the letter. He reads it in a car with Gon sitting next to him, with Gon who is trying not to cry and fails. Gon cries because he’s in a car with a beautiful boy that loves him despite everything. He cries because he thinks he doesn’t deserve this. He cries because he’s trying so hard to hold it in, to stop himself from screaming _I love you_. He’s trying so hard that he’s trembling, and then Killua’s hand is on his arm, soft and grounding in a way that promises _I love you, too_ , and everything doesn’t feel as awful anymore.

What Gon doesn’t know is that, together, they laugh and laugh and laugh so hard they collapse on the ground, clutching their stomachs with their eyes all scrunched up and full of tears. They writhe on the linoleum floor, and Gon thinks _yes this is how it should be_ because Killua’s hugging his tummy and squirming uncontrollably from laughter and not from the poison he was forced to ingest as a child. They’re rolling on the ground with tears in their eyes, and it’s because they’re happy.

What Gon doesn’t know is that they’ve built a haven together. One with a **gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it**. One with a love that transcends hunger. He tells Killua he loves him, that he would name the stars for him, that he would follow his voice to the end of the world and beyond. He says _I’ll give you whatever you want_ and asks _what is it that you want?_ and Killua answers _kiss me_ so he does.

Gon is moving forward. He’s tired of going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot write angst without giving some semblance of a happy ending. i hope this is fulfilling enough for people like me who can't deal with the pain.
> 
> again, this is my first time writing full-out angst, so any comments (good or bad) would be greatly appreciated! i should be back to my regular doses of fluff now, but then again i barely have time to write this semester :( we'll just cross our fingers and hope i can find time.
> 
> stay safe and hang in there, my loves <3


End file.
